The Free Folk
by belly131
Summary: "Typical of you damn knights," She sneers, "You do not acknowledge that there are people other than Romans and Sarmatians who live on this land that you claim you live to protect. You only recognize the Woads now because they have made themselves a force that cannot be ignored! But what do you know of the Necromancers to the East? The Fey in the West? And what of the Free Folk?"
1. Lancelot

disclaimer: I only own my own characters Neve, Sinead, and Eoin (pronounced Owen) and the direction I take this story in.

* * *

Lancelot.

Time for thought. That is what these endless years of service in the cavalry gives you. The older boys in my village who had returned home from their terms of service recounted it as the best years of their lives, but I think I got signed up for the wrong thing. It is the same drill over and over again; missions, bloody battles, taverns, ale, bar wenches. Tis boring. Twas droll after the first 3 years.

Here we are again, huddled around a campfire eating a finely prepared plate of tree squirrel, I note with distaste. I swallow down the gritty hunk of meat with a swig of strong ale to stop the meat from coming straight back up. Yes, when you are in the wild you are in the wild and you eat what you have to to nourish yourself- but that does not mean it is not absolutely revolting.

I look at the weary faces of my comrades, I know they are as tired as I am. Bors sits looking at something in his hand, probably a love token from Vanora. Who would have known a tavern wench would make an (almost) honest man out of the lusty Bors. Gawain sits sharpening his axe silently, his once permanently jovial face now settled into a mask of indifference. Galahad and Dagonet discuss some empty topic, you can tell neither are really fully involved in the conversation by the way Galahad rambles and Dagonet has a distant look in his eyes. Tristan sits isolated by himself, his eyes trained on the sky but that is how he has been since the beginning. Beside me, Arthur's face is drawn as he looks at the many maps he carries in his saddle bag.

This is war, this is what it does to men. It turns them into shadows of the people they used to be, it haunts their eyes perpetually.

"We head west, from the letters that we receive from the Bishop is seems that the Saxons are traveling north, mayhaps we will be able to cut them off. At the very least scout for their motives." Arthur says rolling up his maps. We begin the slow process of putting out our campfire, taking down our campsite and moving on.

More routine. Endless, repetitive routine. I mount Maeva, my steed, and steel myself for the endless stretch of green that will blur before my eyes. Sure the island was beautiful upon first sight, but after years upon years of the same stretch I've come to hate the efoliage leafy foliage of Briton with every fiber of my being.

A few drops of rain splattered on my face and I knew exactly what was coming next, "Oh not more bloody rain!"

Gawain took shelter under his thick cloak, settling into a new round of grumbles about Briton's awful weather. The group made a collective groan hearing the same words pour out of Gawain's mouth that always do whenever it rains.

To my left I see Galahad reciting the entire monologue from memory with an indifferent expression, Dagonet chuckles beside him.

"Every year, every year since conscription and even while we were lads training, every time you open your mouth tis the same bloody blather about the rain and the weather and it has worn a bit thin it has," Bors snaps.

I roll my eyes, even this is routine. I pull forward next to Tristan who is steadily munching on a fresh green apple. I never know where he pulls those from.

We have been riding for a while when I hear it. A steady thundering, like a large rhinoceros tromping through gravel. I chance a look left, of course Tristan has already heard it- he would not be our scout if he had not heard that ruckus.

"Woads you think?" Bors asks, his hand tense on his long sword.

"Woads have made a reputation for themselves with the way they stalk so silently," Tristan says shaking his head.

"Have we crossed paths with the Saxons already?" Galahad asks, turning as he stretches to string his bow.

"Impossible we had at least a days more travel until that according to my calculations," Arthur says shaking his head.

The thundering grows even louder and approaches quickly, we turn into a formation that protects each others backs without a word.

"Listen," I say quieting them, the noise piques my left side and I turn that direction.

Suddenly a figure on a tawny horse comes springing out of the underbrush, dark cloak wrapped around its figure it races towards us. In an instant half the group has their arrows notched, ready to be let loose.

"Go! Get out of here, Saxons! Go!" The figure that approaches is decidedly feminine, blonde hair billowing out in a cloud behind her. Her course veers as she races past us, not even checking to see if we have followed. Following her is another figure on a tawny horse identical to the one that just raced past. The second figure has a cloak covering its head and it struggles to keep up as it keeps a body lying across its thighs from slipping to the ground.

"Did you not hear me idiots? More Saxons than you can dream of defeating." The blonde is back taking the rear behind the other two figures and drawing her own bow. True to her words, the Saxons start thundering through the underbrush, some on horses some not. And there are thousands of them.

Like true knights we look to Arthur before our next move. He observes the approaching crowd and looks at us, then the expectant strangers who are waiting for us to follow.

"There are too many, we must choose our battles prudently. We choose the ones we can win." He turns his horse and automatically ours follow suit. We follow the strangers into a dense section of woods. A twisting knot in my stomach makes me wonder whether this is the best idea...


	2. Tristan

disclaimer: I only own my original characters and the direction I take this story.

* * *

Tristan.

We follow the girl and the hooded strangers down a thin stretch of clearing in the forest, the Saxons follow suit behind us jeering. I push my steed harder and ride up next to the blonde.

"We need to go faster," I tell her urgently.

"There is not much I can do about that, we cannot go as fast she is lugging dead weight," She says pointing back at the hooded figure holding the body across its- apparently _her_- front.

"Let me take that," I say pulling back and yelling at the other. Her face whips to me and hood falls, the eyes that lock on mine are filled with resentment and hatred.

"No, we take care of our own," She pulls tighter on the leather strip that ties the body to her forearms and thighs. I see the thick leather biting into her skin painfully.

"You are holding us back!" I retort riding close enough that I could take the body if I needed to. Her eyes take my observation as an insult. She yanks the strip harder, I see it break the flesh around her wrist, and she rides on in front of me and even in front of the blonde girl.

A cloud of arrows fall upon us, narrowly missing me. I hear Bors cry out and chance a look back only to see him rip the arrow from his thigh and notch his own bow. He lets 4 arrows fly and I am sure all of them have hit their target.

We all pick up the pace, racing and managing to confuse the Saxons enough to gain some space from them. And suddenly both the strange girls disappear and I find myself heading straight for a rock wall covered in vines. Arthur rides a little ahead of me and suddenly he disappears into the rock. Confused I slow, Lancelot and Galahad follow Arthur and seem to absorbed by the rock. What is going on?

I decide to follow my fellow brothers and head straight for the rock, expecting the hard surface of it to break my face. I am confused when all I feel is a brush of foliage. I open my eyes and I am riding through a dark tunnel, the only sound guiding my horse is the scent of his companions.

"Faster Yseult," I urge the mare, she whinnies in response and presses harder until I can hear Galahad's low murmuring to his own horse. The tunnel breaks suddenly into an expanse of field completely unlike the forest we were in before. I pull Yseult to a stop next to Arthur and Lancelot as the rest of our party pulls out of the tunnel looking as confused as I felt.

I watch as the girl who was towing the unconscious body lets it slide to the floor as she lightly lands after it. She goes to the blonde, who is slumped forward on her horse and slides her off. As we knights catalogue our injuries, Arthur goes to talk to the strangers.

The girl who towed the body throws down her hood to reveal a tight plait colored dark brown, she pulls the blonde against a boulder and throws her cloak back to examine the wound. An arrow protrudes from her lower rib cage so deep it probably came out on the other side.

"Let us help, as part of our gratitude for the warning, Dagonet!" Arthur calls our healer over. The rest of the knights trail him.

"Dagonet is one of the best healers you will ever meet, let him take care of this," Arthur says putting a hand on the brunette's shoulder.

"No!" She whirls around pointing a short sword at Arthur's throat, at the sound of the metal swinging through the air all the knights respond in kind. The brunette finds herself surrounded by a circle of sword wielding knights.

"We take care of our own," She repeats, "This is my job," Her accent is strange, light and lilting and unlike any we have heard around the Wall. She sets to work next to Dagonet, who is only allowed to touch when she gives permission. She cuts the tail off of the arrow and sets herself in front of the blonde whose eyes are rolling back in pain.

"Sinead, this will hurt," She says calmly, putting the leather tong she used to tie the body to herself in the blonde's mouth. The brunette steadies herself on Sinead's shoulder, quickly reaching behind her to yank the arrow all the way through. Sinead screams biting down hard on the leather, her scream scraping our ear drums. The brunette rummages in a leather pouch tied to her waist, she pulls a handful of leaves out to stuff in her mouth. Dagonet watches with interest as she pulls the mush of leaves in her mouth and presses it to Sinead's side.

"Neve... Tend to Eoin." Sinead manages to utter between grunts of pain. The brunette, Neve, turns to the body that lays on the floor and uncovers it. A young man, maybe about Galahad's age, not more than a score and two years old lays barely breathing.

"We made it Eoin, you are not to give up on me yet," She says desperately, putting her canteen to his mouth. He sips slowly, his eyes never fully recognizing her. He should not be drinking, he can barely breathe. Something is wrong with his lungs and she is not recognizing it.

I move to her side, pushing her away before she can complain. She just about launches herself at me, ready to attack, when Bors plucks her from the air

"Darling, he knows what he is doing. Do not pay heed to his gruff nature not all knights can be as charming as I," He grins, she groans turning her attention on forcing him to let go of her.

My fingers trace the lad's sides and I feel it, broken ribs. They are in his lungs, they let in blood which is why he cannot breathe.

"There is blood in his lungs because he broke his ribs. He will likely drown soon." I say curtly stepping away to let her say her goodbyes. I fail to add that his broken ribs are likely a result of her rough riding because her eyes are on fire and though I loathe to admit it the intensity in her eyes unnerves me.

"What? Do something? You Dagonet! Please!" She cries desperately. Dagonet approaches from where he finished wrapping up Sinead's abdomen.

"I have no cure for that, lass. No one does. No one can remove a lung and put it back." He says. Her frustration is evident on her face, she sinks to her knees before the boy.

"You saved me from worse," he utters. Sinead kneels next to her, a hand on her waist guarding her wound. She moves with great difficulty, I can tell from its placement that it has punctured a vital organ, she too will likely be dead soon.

Words stop between them and their eyes speak. I know their bond is similar to that of my fellow knights, I can only imagine what the loss of someone so integral to one's own survival must feel like. We all bow our heads. Their look seems to be shared in three directions, their hands locked together.

The boy, Eoin, blinks once, twice, before he blinks no more. Funny, how the moment that all men fear from their birthing day comes and goes with little fanfare.


	3. Gawain

Disclaimer:I only own my original characters and the direction I take this story, I'm starting to mix in a little of the mythology surrounding the knights now.

* * *

Gawain.

The funeral is short and sweet, no words exchanged just a few tears shed on the part of the girls. Eoin looked much too young to be put in a grave so early. His boyish face barely had a hint of whiskers before his skin was cold. I look over at his companions again. Given the gravity of the situation I feel slightly guilty at the way I am so openly appraising the two women but life on the Wall for knights is rather boring and bar wenches only start to be pleasing to the eyes after a couple pints of ale. God knows Sarmatian women looked not nearly quite as pleasing as these ones.

Sinead, obviously the leader in the duo, is taller by half a head. Her long blonde hair is so light it's nearly white, and everything about her is golden from her big amber eyes to her bronze skin. She stands with her arm around Neve, who true to her name has thin, aelfin features that are snow white. Her dark hair still rests in the plait that is firmly knotted tightly to her head. Her own dark eyes are narrowed at the grave that hold their mutual friend.

"Ave atque vale," She steps forward and murmurs before Lancelot and Bors toss the last pile of dirt on the covers that covers their friend. She cuts a piece off the end of her dark braid and drops it in the hole, Sinead follows suit. The twisting ebony and ivory locks are soon buried by a pile of dirt.

"What does that mean?" I say leaning to Arthur, the only one of us who is versed in Latin.

"Hail and farewell." He says with a confused look in his eyes, "Roman soldiers say that to each other when they have fallen in battle. They cut their hair and bury it with them to signify that a part of themselves goes with the other to the after life."

He notices me observing his curious look and says, "But these women... They are not Romans."

"How can you tell? What do Roman women look like?" I ask him.

He purses his lips, his eyes dark with suspicion before he responds, "Plump."

We convince the girls to stay and share a meal, part of our gratitude for them saving us, and Arthur finally breaks their pointed silence in the midst of the meal.

"You lasses do not have the appearance of Romans, how is it you come to know Latin?" He asks, biting the grilled squirrel we have eaten for about 2 weeks now. From his side I see Lancelot wince dramatically as he eats his own chunk of squirrel. He can truly be a woman sometimes.

"That would be correct because we are not." Sinead says at the same time that Neve snorts with disgust. Sinead is decidedly more friendly, even if it is in a slightly guarded manner. Neve is adamant in her hatred of us, though we have done nothing to insult her. I notice Lancelot's eyes raking over her slender form. Yet, I tack on to the end of that last thought.

"Then what are you? You sure do not have the appearance of Sarmatian women for I've yet to feel the need to gouge my eyes out," Bors says lewdly with a loud laugh.

"We are Free Folk," Sinead says as if it is obvious and points to her garb. Both she and Neve wear leather trousers like men, weapons laced through the straps.

We stay silent. I have never heard of Free Folk and I have roamed these lands here for 14 years.

"What in bloody hell are Free Folk," Lancelot asks. Neve snorts again, she seems very adept at showing her disgust for us.

"Typical of you damn knights," She sneers, "You do not acknowledge that there are people other than Romans and Sarmatians who live on this land that you claim you live to protect. You only recognize the Woads now because they have made themselves a force that cannot be ignored! But what do you know of the Necromancers to the East? The Fey in the West? And what of the Free Folk?

She pauses as she glares at us, "You know nothing."

"This is no fairy tale land girl, do not feed us empty headed folklore," Dagonet says, lowering his canteen of ale.

"Tis not nonsense, if you would open your eyes you could see! Instead of slaughtering anyone that happens to be in your way as you run busy work for the High Holy King." Neve argues, her pitch rising. Sinead puts a hand on her friends arm.

"You know of Merlin of the Woads, called sorcerer by some, wizard by others. He is of the same sort of variety as the Eastern Necromancers. They are led by someone you know only by name and in legend, Morgan Le Fay. And the Western Fey? You cannot say there are not spirits in the trees and springs, you can feel them- you cannot deny their presence. In fact you know one of them already. She goes by many names, but you should know her as the Lady of the Lake," Sinead says, her words settling heavy around us. Arthur's eyes are locked on hers.

Of course Arthur had recounted to us of his times before he led our cavalry, of being gifted Excalibur by the mysterious figure in the water. Of being spared by the mysterious Merlin. Of stories from the far East about the evil Morgana that were quite difficult to believe. But the pieces fall together slowly now.

"And what of the Free Folk," Asks Tristan from his corner, he peels an apple with a small dagger.

"People are cruel, they make outcasts of the cripples, the abnormal, those that bear social stigma. The Free Folk accept them all. Protect them, fight for them, love them as they should be," Sinead says carefully, but her eyes reveal her hidden bitterness.

"And how is it we have never managed to hear about any of these peoples." Galahad asks skeptically from behind me. I agree, tis not every day 3 races of peoples pop up into existence without any former knowledge.

"You have never listened." Neve says simply, locking eyes with him over the fire.


	4. Galahad

Disclaimer: I only own my original characters and the direction I take this story in.

* * *

Galahad.

"And this, gentlemen, is the moment we take our leave," Sinead says rising after our meal.

"And where is it you head?" Arthur asks them as they make their way to their twin tawny horses.

"To Hadrian's Wall for supplies and respite before we move on," Sinead answers almost immediately before receiving an elbow to her ribs from Neve.

"Why do you insist upon revealing all of our plans to any which person we meet!" Neve whispers at her angrily.

"Though hard to believe lass, we are some of the good ones," Bors says holding his mug of ale out to her. She looks at him with mistrust obvious in her eyes.

"Allow us to escort you to the Wall, we are the knights that guard it after all," Gawain offers to the girls. They share a long look.

"You would be better off with our help, there is a slim chance that you will make it to the wall without an attack from the Woads," I tell them.

"And no matter how equipped you think you are at being able to fight them, you will stand no chance. There be far too many of them," Gawain adds after.

After a long pause and shared look between the girls Sinead finally looks at us, "We accept your protection, many thanks new friends."

After only a few hours it is easy to see that Sinead is charming almost to a fault. Lancelot and Gawain are absolutely besotted with the fair haired girl. Conversation flows easily with her, easy chatter about Briton and their travels so far. On he other hand Neve is the moon to Sinead's sun. Where Sinead is an open book with the story of their lives, Neve has managed to answer all the questions asked of her in such away that she reveals nothing of herself.

Having been taken from my village in Sarmatia at the age of 9, I did not make many close friends before I left. During training all the boys were competing, so friendship had no place on the training grounds. In fact, my only friendships in life have come from the years of service with the other knights so those are the reasons I find the way Sinead and Neve work together to be so interesting.

I have never seen two people who complete each other in the way that they do. They share thoughts and full conversations just between looks and glances, they finish each others thoughts and move in a way that they mirror each other constantly.

"I know that look," Neve says from beside me in her lilting accent. I look at her confused, and she points her eyes in the direction of Sinead where my eyes had previously been trained.

"I know not what you mean," I tell her.

"Tis the same with all men she meets, she need only breathe and they are enchanted," She winks at me conspiratorially.

"And what of you? How many men do you enslave with your reproachful glares and ill temper?" I tease her. To my genuine surprise instead of the scowl I expected to receive she grins widely at my humor. My breath catches a little in my throat, I am so thrown off guard by the transformation in her eyes when she smiles. I realize belatedly that this is the first time I have seen her smile.

"Why do you stare so?" She asks still slightly smiling, her eyes are still amused albeit slightly confused.

"Careful lass, you have shocked him half to death with that smile of yours," Bors laughs as he downs the rest of his ale. Her smile drops and her face flushes as she turns her head back down to sharpening her dagger. It is not that she has an unbecoming face, to say that would be a lie. But when her gaze is trained on you with a look so fierce and mistrusting it is hard to see past her dark eyes.

I did not expect her to resume speaking, from the entire day that we have spent in each other's company I have been able to judge that the girl clams up when she feels uncomfortable.

"She has been like that since we were little," She starts, glancing upwards at Sinead who has Lancelot and Gawain absorbed in the middle of what seems to be an exhilarating story. I wait for her to continue.

"She excelled at everything so naturally, like she was born to do it. It took me three weeks to be able to mount and sit on a horse long enough for the beast to move to a trot and Sinead was able to mount and move the creature to a gallop the day she met it. Everybody admired her the minute they met her because she was the most formidable person they had yet to meet," Neve confides.

"She is truly a charming girl," I concede.

"Charming almost to a fault," She states, echoing my earlier thoughts, "Her only failing seems to be her naive trust of everyone she meets."

"Not quite the worst fault," I say disagreeing.

"When you have lived lives like ours, anyone who is not us is an enemy," She says honestly, not meeting my eyes.

We sit in silence, I restring my bow and she slides her dagger against the whetstone. I mull over the information she has given me, wondering why she has decided to trust me with these confidences. I look at Neve, her elfin features trained on the small knife in her hand.

"Do not take offense to this friend," She looks up at my usage of the word, "But of the short time we have been in acquaintance of each other I have not known you to be one who reveal so much about herself. May I ask why you have confided in me so?"

She studies me as well, her dark eyes looking into mine though I can tell that she is not truly seeing me in front of her.

"You remind me greatly of Eoin," She states, recalling her dead friend, "You have the same eyes. The exact same color, tis almost unnerving."

She sticks her knife back in her boot, dropping the whetstone into her saddle bag.

"He was my best friend, I cared for him very much. I used to confide in him like this," She says with a small smile, "My apologies if I am too intimate in my confessions."

"Nay friend, tis a welcome confidence," I say in response. She smiles at me again and I find the way her grin curves almost entrancing.

"Friend," She whispers under her breath to herself.


	5. Dagonet

Disclaimer: I do now own King Arthur, only my characters and the direction I choose to take this story in.

* * *

Dagonet.

From the spot we were at before the Saxon attack, we were a fortnight's travel away from the wall. Given that we were now sporting injuries from the attack, I have estimated our time to about have doubled before we reach the wall again. I chance a look at our new guests, musing over the mystery of them. Over the period of half a fortnight they have wormed their way into our tightly knit cavalry.

Sinead intermingled herself into the group easily, winning over everyone with her charm and grace. Her stories entertained all, her boisterous laugh made it hard not to fall under her lure. Neve, now not as openly hostile as she was the first few days, has slowly made her way out of her comfort zone.

"I know not what this is called, but we use it to lower the temperature when a body is burning. Normally it is brewed into a tea, but it can also be chewed," The formerly unsociable girl says pulling a large dappled leaf out of her bag of herbs.

I was perhaps the most surprised when the small girl came to sit beside me as I catalogued the herbs I use for healing. She was thoroughly intrigued by our uses of poultices and potions in glass vials as opposed to her method of the properties of herbs and roots. She quickly took to showing me the uses of her own stock of healers supplies, and listened to my lengthy explanations on the uses of my own collection.

"And what does this do?" Her slim, pale fingers hold up a dark liquid encased in a vial. She holds the vial up to the sunlight and the sun breaks the crystal across her face in a rainbow of colors. She smiles at me, waving the bottle.

"Dag, did you hear me?" She asks again. The rainbow lights across her face remind of the tattoos the wise women of my tribe in Sarmatia used to wear.

"Tis a very strong poison, only to be used when one is in the greatest of pains and wishes to be put out of his misery," I say in a grim tone. I watch as she silently sets it down, her fingers organizing the bottles into a straight line.

"You have yet to use it?" She asks, her chin upon her knee as she looks at me.

"Nay, it has been used on many a soldier and on one former knight," I say recalling a fallen comrade.

"I shall wash these for you," She says after a pause taking the bloodied bandages from my hands and moving towards the stream we have camped near.

"She seems awful chatty these days," Bors comments once the girl is out of hearing range.

"I told you all, give her some time to get comfortable," Sinead says sinking to the ground next to Bors and I. She takes a big bite out of a green apple in her palm.

"When you come from where we came from, tis instinctual to be wary of large groups of men," She says cryptically. Everything about the two has been maintained as such an enigma.

"Pray tell, where is it you came from?" Arthur asks, finally looking up from his endless maps. I think back on the conversation I head between Galahad and Neve a few days ago. Neve had called Sinead naive in her trust of others.

"Before we came into the care of the Free Folk we had been sold together to the same Roman outpost in the North," She peels back leather collar of her tunic to reveal a Roman sigil stamped into her skin, "When we turned 13 we ran as far South as we could until we ran directly into the camp of the Free Folk. They accepted us with no question."

She hisses in pain suddenly, pressing her palm into the wound she received in the Saxon attack the day we encountered her the first time.

Between short, deep breaths she tells us, "We were given a home, and a family the instant we joined their ranks. You know not what that feels like, having a group of people to love and care for you after years of servitude. We were allowed the semblance of a normal life, we could have grown old and married and raised families. We just happened to be in the way when the Saxons came through. They razed our entire population to the ground and were merciless in their slaughter. Neve, Eoin, and I were forced to watch as the only family we have ever known were murdered before our very eyes."

I move towards her, moving the bandages and examining the wound. Up close it gives off a putrid stench, the skin and the organs within beginning to rot. I have noticed of late she is also unable to eat very much though she puts on a great show of pretending to eat for Neve.

"Your condition is worsening," I tell her gravely.

"I am dying," She corrects, "I know the wound festers and I know there is not much you can do about it."

"You seem awfully tranquil," Lancelot says, looking at her with dark eyes.

"I knew my time would come and I have made peace with the fact that it is sooner rather than later, my only concern is being able to let go on my own terms when I am ready," She says with an unaffected shrug.

"I thought you had more fight in you girl," Gawain says with urgency in his voice. I have seen the looks they shared of late, he is smitten with the lass.

"What can I do of it now?" She snaps angrily to his insult, she pauses to compose herself and turns to our leader, "Arthur, you know some would say you owe me a debt."

Arthur looks up from where he strategizes with Galahad and quirks an eyebrow at her. He entertains her statement with a small grin.

"Those few would be mad to say so to my face, but go on, for what is it you say I owe you?" He asks, folding his arms across his chest. He looks amused by her antics. Hardly do I ever see Arthur look amused. He has three moods; tired, angry, or stressed.

"Well, had I not been there to warn you, you and your men would be at the mercy of the Saxons by now," She says slowly as she resumes eating her apple.

"Please, as if Tristan would not have been able to pick up on the thundering of their feet from miles away," He snorts.

"And yet you were not yet moving when we came crashing through the underbrush," She responds. They continue like this, and it is an interesting sight to see. Sinead is charming in a way few are, her insistence on her version of events can almost convince others of their truth though we know it is far from it. Already I see Arthur giving in to her persistence.

"So what is it you are really asking for?" Arthur asks, "Free lodging, supplies, a permanent home at the Wall?"

Arthur is a generous man, even had the girl not been so charming he would have been ready to offer such things to the two. Sinead's eyes take on a serious tone, seeing the change in her demeanor Arthur leans forward on his legs to look at her. The golden girl has also caught the attention of all the other knights who pause in their chores to hear her request.

"I am not long for this world, and I ask, I _implore _of you. Please, please take care of my Neve. She is the only thing in the world that matters to me, and I beg of you to take her in as one of your own," She locks eyes with Arthur, her breathing labored.

"Tis done, she will be cared for like one of my own," Arthur says without hesitation.

"Like one of your knights?" She persists, not accepting Arthur's easy offering.

"Well... A knight is a warrior of great renown. I cannot say that I will treat her like my own knights but l will treat her as an honored guest." Arthur says as he searches her light eyes.

Her eyes are aflame as she shakes her head vehemently, "She can fight, she will _want_ to fight. After all Cerdic has done to the only home we have ever known she will insist that she fight. Nay you shake your head now but when the moment comes no one will be able to stop her from getting her vengeance. My impending death will only motivate her even more."

"The battlefield is no place for a woman, especially one her size. She would be struck down in an instant!" Galahad insists to my left. I nod in agreement, the thought of the slight girl weaving her way around a battlefield with swords clanging down on her from every direction makes a knot form in my stomach.

Sinead smirks before calling out to her returning friend, "Neve they seem to doubt the warrior abilities of the Free Folk."


	6. Bors

Disclaimer: I own nothing of King Arthur just my own characters and the direction I take with this story.

* * *

Bors.

_Sinead smirks before calling out to her returning friend, "Neve they seem to doubt the warrior abilities of the Free Folk."_

And God knows we did not expect what would come after that. I watch as Neve and Galahad spar now, the clang of their weapons sending sparks flying through the air. She moves lightly on her feet, her body twisting and weaving like a dancer as she parries off Galahad's sword. Since the day that Sinead made her request of Arthur she had made sure to be able to showcase Neve's talents to prove her point to our Roman commander.

They had interesting weapons, the likes of which I had never seen before. I watch as Neve catches Galahad's sword between her two twin blades and pushes them out of her way before spinning to point one of the thin blades to his throat. Their sparring match continues and I watch as Gawain and Sinead discuss their fighting techniques from next to a tall tree. Sinead's own weapon wraps around her wrist, the long curved blades hanging at her hip.

_The two girls faced each other with sneaky smiles as they circled each other. Neve slid the two long blades from their sheaths in her leather armbands. They are interesting weapons that look completely unfamiliar to me. I cannot decide if they are small swords or large daggers, the length of the blade as long as her forearms. They are as slim as her thin arms as well, the hilts of the blade extending slightly up in the direction of the blade creating an odd W-shape. Sinead twists the long chain of her weapon around her body, the curved blades at each end of the length of chain swinging around dangerously. Neve launches herself first, her knives twirling as she attacks Sinead, Sinead in turn twists the chain of her weapon around her torso and her arms letting the curved blades follow their path as they narrowly miss the smaller girl. They were almost evenly matched, and would have fought for a long time had the wound in Sinead's side not slowed the girl down. She played off her loss gracefully, acting as if her wound did not bother her at all. _

They were excellent fighters, moreso than any of the knights expected. Their fighting style learned from the Free Folk was an eclectic mix from all corners of the island so they explained to us. They learned tactics and the skill of anticipating an opponent's move from the Romans of their tribe, and of the outcast Woads they learned to move silently and swiftly. They incorporated a style from the Fey in which they used their bodies to jump and wrap around the body of their attacker and swiftly bring them to the ground, I find this to be the most interesting part of their fighting style as I have never seen a human move their body in such a way before._  
_

I watch as Neve quickly jumps on the sword that Galahad swings at her legs and uses the leverage to leap and wrap a leg around his neck. She swings her weight to the ground, catching herself in a handstand as the force of her body forces Galahad to the ground. She grins triumphantly as she rolls on top of Galahad and points one of her blades at his throat.

"Tis not fair! You cheat using your minx like moves to distract me!" Galahad frowns throwing his sword into its scabbard violently.

"He is just mad he lost to a little slip of a girl! You bested him fair!" I roar with laughter at Galahad's red face.

"Come, again!" She shouts joyously to him, her smile curves naughtily, "Or are you afraid to lose again?"

At that taunt he whirls at her figure his sword narrowly missing her nose as her blades are brought up again. They circle each other slowly, Galahad's sword level with her eyes and Neve's daggers trained carefully at both his neck and forehead. Tristan moves from beside me so silently I could have sworn I did not see him until he was right in front of me, I feel my heart hammer in my chest almost doubled in speed. I curse under my breath and drink some more ale.

Neve becomes aware of the scout standing close to the dueling pair and becomes distracted easily. The two have been on bad terms since their first meeting. Strong personalities tend to butt heads when put together, and these two were no exception. Whether it be over his method of skinning the tree squirrels or her method of hunting hares we have had no break in the constant bickering that follows the two.

Tristan stands behind Galahad slapping the boy hard in the back with his curved sword.

"Back straight," He says, Galahad immediately obeys. Tis no question that the boy looks up to our scout with an admiration like a lost pup.

"Lead foot forward," He says again, nudging Galahad's right foot forward. At his full height Galahad towers over Neve's slight form and she backs slightly. But Tristan is not done yet.

He comes behind the girl, critiquing her stance though I have a sneaking position he is also critiquing her physique.

"Elbows up, grip closer to the top of the hilt," He says knocking her arms higher, not gently, but not roughly either.

"I think I know how to use my own weapons," She says with a huff of breath.

"I think not," He insists with a smirk on his face. Neve grimaces. She has made it painfully obvious to anyone who has ears that Tristan's sly smirk drove her insane.

"I think _so," _She responds back turning her back on her round with Galahad, her knives trained on Tristan.

"Shall we put it to the test?" He asks challengingly. Of the many years I have known Tristan, I have yet to see a woman who elicits the responses out of him that Neve does. Half the time I cannot tell whether he wants to strangle her or grab her and kiss her. But then, I know Tristan better than any of the others.

In place of a response Neve swings her blade at Tristan, narrowly catching his cheek. In the same instant she moved to strike him, his sword was already out and trained at her neck.


	7. Arthur

Disclaimer: I only own my original characters and the direction I take this story in!

* * *

Arthur.

The clangs of their swinging swords had attracted all my knights and Sinead, so I decided to see what the fuss was all about it. I settle next to Gawain and Sinead, and try to not notice the way his arm curls around her side. This bodes well for neither of them given her impending doom. I have known Gawain a long time, he found great pleasure in the tavern wenches who gave things easily and without a second thought. He has never been the type to fall hard and fast, yet that is exactly what he did. I turn my eyes back towards Neve who is circling Tristan now. At least this is a welcome break from their constant bickering, even though I seriously worry for their safety.

_Neve parries off Tristan's quick swings almost breathlessly, not anticipating his speed and agility. She whirls, lashing out against his back and is caught completely off guard when his sword slices down on her upper arm. She steps back a few steps in shock, locking eyes with him. Fighting with Galahad and Gawain, and even Sinead had been different for her. It had been a playful type of sparring, intense yet somewhat gentle. The darkhaired girl looks down at the cut that bleeds freely down her arm now. Tristan was not afraid to spar with her, _really _spar with her and it changed the tone of their battle completely. She strikes back now, hard and fast with no mercy in her dark eyes. The playfulness is gone, in its place a fury that seems to emanate from her body._

For the first time, I realize the practicality of their clothes. Neve's chain mail shirt is much like our under armor but with more tightly knit rings, Tristan's sword comes slashing down on her chest, leaving only a trail of sparks and likely only heightening her dislike for the scout. She throws one of the blades and Tristan narrowly avoids it as it lands hilt deep in a tree behind him. She reaches for the dagger laced into the side of her leather pants, holding it in front of her face. Her boot is much like the men's, solid and good for hiking and hunting though hers laces all the way to the knee. She lands a solid kick to Tristan's stomach and charges forward using this advantage.

"I have yet to see someone spar this long with Tristan," Dagonet states beside me, obviously impressed. And he is a hard man to impress.

"As much might and just as formidable as your knights, as you have obviously seen," Sinead says in a high tone, grinning at Arthur.

"You are lucky you are so charming, otherwise your little plots and devious workings would never pull through," I say finally, relenting. She takes my hand in hers and looks at me earnestly, her eyes saying all the thanks that she could never put into words.

I turn back to the sparring two in time to see a distracted Tristan get a solid punch to the jaw by Neve. She looks just surprised as he does, and likely we all do, but uses it to her advantage as she tackles him to the ground her blade pointed at his chest. Tristan is not one to lose easily and roughly throws her over onto her back as he pins her blade arm down.

She struggles and thrashes beneath him, the anger in her eyes obvious to all. Her vendetta against the scout now magnified by her resentment of him. To our surprise she manages to push the much taller and heavier scout off of her as she rolls on top again.

Both of them freeze in this position, her with her hands wrapped around his throat as she straddles his waist, her weapons long forgotten. Him, with his fist knotted in her dark hair now free of its tight plait as he pulls her head back, her own dagger locked against her throat. She is shining with a thin layer of swear, her long dark hair falling down her back as she glares down her nose at Tristan and I think I have never seen such a fierce looking, beautiful girl.

Slowly Sinead begins to clap, rising to her feet unsteadily, her wound still giving her pain. The other knights follow suit until the pair finally release each other and rise to their feet collecting their weapons.

"My knight in shining armor!" Sinead says laughing as she collect Neve in a hug, "The Saxons quiver in their furs at the fearsome might of Neve of the Gauls!"

"Not many live to tell the tale after facing Tristan," Dagonet says with an inclination of his head to the small girl.

Later that night, as I lie awake, I think that maybe tis not the worst idea to have the girl on my side. Though knowing she is an impressive and striking warrior I am not put at ease at the thought of the small girl running through a battlefield attacking blood thirsty Saxons, be it the gentleman in me or just the man in me.

I hear rustling in the brush to my left and I am immediately on my feet, weapon drawn.

"Tis only I," Sinead's voice floats to me and she settles down next to me in the clearing I was just lying in.

"You grow weaker," I comment, noticing her pale face and the dark circled underneath her golden eyes.

"I do," She affirms, nodding slowly, "But I will not go whimpering and mewling in pain. I go on my own terms."

Her eyes are foggy, she is almost delirious in pain. I know her time is very soon.

"Think of what it will do to your friend," I tell her. Her face hardens.

"We are warriors, she will grieve and I will continue to haunt her. But she will pull together and use her pain to create a vengeance so strong," She trails off.

"You seem to have this all planned out in your head, but I think you should know of all things do not always go the way we hope," I tell her. I notice she rubs in her hand a necklace of Gawain's.

"No they never do," She responds.


	8. Lancelot II

Disclaimer: I only own my original characters and the direction I take this story in.

* * *

Lancelot.

I am awoken by soft murmurmings and my very first instinct is to grab hold of the dagger that rests under my cloak. My entire body tenses, expecting an attack, but to my surprise the soft murmuring is punctuated by quiet giggles. I turn over on my side to where the fire still burns dimly and see Sinead and Gawain still awake and talking.

They lie on their backs, arms around each other as they look through the clearing to the night sky. I shake my head. Gawain, as a full grown man, should know better than getting involved with someone when you live a life like ours. Even moreso when the person you are getting involved with has a higher mortality expectancy than you do. Even from here, in the dim light I see the way her hand cradles the wound in her side.

I know she is still in immense loads of pain, quickly going through the strong pain medicine that Dagonet had in stock. She rarely eats these days and it shows too, her once shapely and womanly figure diminishing over the course of a mere fortnight as she waned into a wraith-like creature.

I see the two look at each other and know immediately that this spells heartbreak for the both of them. Her wan face gazes at him in the flickering firelight, and he returns her moony eyed look. Deep inside I know a part of me is jealous. There had been few tavern wenches and common whores that _had not_ shared my bed, and even less than those few were those I could say I loved. For me, a knight goes into battle and received his greatest honor by dying while fighting. And for this reason, love always seemed improbable- and even more simply selfish.

I look at the two and the looks passing between their eyes and I know what I am seeing is love, however brief and passionate it is for the two. I think back upon every woman I thought I had loved and had to subsequently leave because of my fear of leaving someone alone if I happened not to come home from a mission one day.

In the quiet night I can pick up on tidbits of their conversation, though I try my best not to listen in.

"This was not part of my plan," A higher voice, presumably Sinead says.

"Must you plan everything?" Gawain responds with a laugh. Her silence is an answer enough.

"Do you regret it, what we have shared?" Gawain asks again, this time piquing my interest. Anything concerning the after-hour duties of my friends greatly concerns me. Only a fortnight and they have shared a bed, well moreso a shared cloak probably. Well, at the rate she was dying I suppose they had to move fast. I feel my face screw up at the thought of Gawain fucking a dying girl.

Though if you think about it, everyone you fuck is dying, so technically you are always fucking a dying person. I almost chuckle at my musings.

"How could I ever regret anything, especially now?" She responds to him. She sounds like she is smiling. I think of her smiling face, the way her golden eyes crinkle and the flowing locks of white blonde hair shake when she laughs. Gawain that lucky bastard.

"My time is coming soon," She says, her voice trailing off. Neve would not take it well. I frown thinking on how it was very probable the girl would close up again in her grief like she did in the beginning.

I hear Gawain begin to protest, argue that she has more time when she cuts him off, "I eat next to nothing these days, I feel the wound eating away at my insides."

Their voices sink lower and I decide I have had enough of their lovesick chit chat. I get up as discreetly as I can, padding softly to where the horses graze. I go to my steed, Maeva, her brown pelt almost black in the dark moonlight.

She senses me before I even come hear, my outstretched hand finds her nose easily. She nuzzles my palm and pushes her head closer to me. This is the rare affection that I will accept, often having no patience for cuddling and pillow talk and the like. From the corner of my eye I see a small movement and turn my head to find Tristan sitting on a felled log above my head. I clutch at my heart, always hating the ability that he can sneak around without anyone's notice like that.

Seeing my obvious fright he smirks at me. I am starting to see what Neve keeps on saying about his annoying smirk. He cuts a chunk out of the apple he cuts for himself and tosses it to me.

"Where do you even get these?" I ask him in exasperation. He merely shrugs in response.

He jerks his head over to the conversation I just escaped, "They have been going at it all night."

There is a certain toneless manner in the way he says things that keeps his emotions strictly off his face. I look past the clearing of trees seeing the duo still whispering to each other against the dying fire. Dying girl, dying fire. I chuckle to myself. Tristan raises an eyebrow at my laughter but I make no move to explain. It would be too morbid.

"When she goes, Neve is going to go insane," I comment, seeing the sleeping girl curled up against the trunk of a tree. His gaze falls on her as well.

"Yes most likely," He responds, I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Tristan always provides such great conversation.

"The fortnight's ride back to the Wall is bound to be interesting," I say as I feed Maeva the apple chunk.

"It was bound to be interesting the moment those two joined us," He comments, looking up at the sky. Again I am completely unaware of what he is thinking or feeling.


	9. Tristan II

Disclaimer: I only own my original characters and the direction I take this story in.

* * *

Tristan.

You could smell it in the rain this morning that today was going to be... different to say the least. It was like a sign from the Gods that today was marked, something was _happening_ today. It started as any other morning typically starts. We knights tend to rise with the sun, it feels better that way. We like being awake and alert as often as possible when on missions, it is better for our safety. Since the newest addition of our guests, we have pushed back our early morning rides to a more reasonable hour because Neve could sleep for days, and Galahad certainly does not mind the extra hours of shut eye.

We sit around the spit, the hare turns slowly when Neve joins us, sleepy eyed and rumpled hair. She sits down among us without a word, as is normal (or so we think) because she is not usually a person to be jolly in the morning. We barely notice the way Sinead slips like a ghost from where she sits and walk pasts us.

It is Neve who pegs the change in atmosphere first, she spins around looking, her eyes wide awake now.

"Where is Sinead?" She asks us, her voice a hoarse croak. We catch sight of the eponymous blonde as she makes her way far into the grasses to where the river lies. Over the past few days of travel we have moved upstream to a spot where the river rushes violently like waterfalls.

"Sinead?" Neve's voice goes up three notches as her friend moves farther away. We know what this is, the blonde warned us of it, her demise on her own terms. Gawain goes deep into the woods by himself his eyes cast down. Not even he can stop her.

Neve starts walking to her friend, calling her name louder and louder, each time picking her pace up a little bit. They grow increasingly closer to the rushing river. Arthur and Lancelot refuse to look on, to hear or see the desperation in her voice or the confusion in her eyes- because at any other moment she would have killed them for watching her while she appeared so weak.

"Someone stop her for Chrissakes you know she cannot swim," Bors says, his voice rough as he tries to hide his compassion for the girl he had adopted a fondness for.

_We had learned belatedly that Neve could not swim, well at least could not swim well. She had gone to wash Dagonet's bandages in the tame stream we had been camped by when we realized it had been a while since she had come back from the easy chore. Dagonet himself had to be the one to pluck the flailing girl from the river where she spat up water and her breakfast, shaking because she was soaked to the bone._

"Neve wait," Galahad says running to catch up with the girl who by now is screaming to high holy hell for Sinead to stop what she is doing immediately and turn back around. Sinead moves like a ghost through the reeds, they barely move as she passes, her pale face refusing to meet her friends' eyes. Neve on the other hand crashes through the plants like a wildebeest learning to walk. Her voice screams profanities, sometimes falling into a foreign language that I assume to be her native tongue.

Sinead now has reached the edge of the river and Neve is at a full on sprint. Sinead speaks her first words since this morning, "Stop her."

It is said with such finality that we know there is no turning back from this point. Galahad finally catches up and loops his arms around Neve's waist as she thrashes and beats at him with her fists. She lands a solid one to his nose and from where Arthur and the rest are sitting fairly far away, they wince at the sound of the crack that meant a broken bone.

Neve sets off in a sprint again, no one chases after her and I know she will only hurt herself if she does reach her friend's form so I move forward to wrap my arms around her tightly. Tis a sick embrace, she writhes and screams as she tries to beat me but I do not loosen my tight grip on her arms and wrists though I know they will probably bruise come evening.

Sinead tips forward for where she perches on the edge of the bank, throwing herself into the river. Likely if she did not die upon impact, the rough tossing of the water would have hurled her against giant river stones or protruding tree roots. I refrain to mention this to Neve because she probably would not appreciate the information. At the sight of her friend's pale hair moving rapidly downstream Neve loses it. She goes wild in my arms, gaining a strength I did not know she possessed. I reassess the situation having underestimated her.

I am forced to throw her to the ground as she writhes below me, tears now freely flowing and she does not care who sees. I never thought one could hear pain, but when she screams tis like all the heartbreak in the world is tangible. She beats me from her place pinned below me. Each blow hurts more than the previous, and it is all I can do to simply hold her down.

After a while, the sun has moved a considerable distance, she quiets and simply lies beneath me limp. Her hollow eyes are locked on mine, void of emotions. Even her quivering breaths have stilled to almost sleep like inhales. I for one, am a man who hates crying. I consider it beneath someone's dignity, the ultimate show of weakness but when Neve cried I felt almost some sort of compassion. Her red-ringed eyes match the tip of her nose and her flushed cheeks, I praise that she is not a snot filled quivering type.

She has yet to move beneath me and more time has passed, the sky has darkened noticeably. In a way, I prefer her absolute madness as compared to this corpse of a girl beneath me. Her eyes have not moved from mine and they unnerve me, the way she looks at me with those dark eyes it is like she is searching my entire soul.

Slowly, carefully, we get up together. The rain had made mud that dried into her hair and now caked around her hands and the sides of her face. She does not even brush herself off as she walks next to me back to the camp where the men refuse to meet her eyes, and her eyes never lose that ghost like trance.


	10. Gawain II

Disclaimer: I am sad and I miss sinead, i only own Neve now:/ and the way I take this story. Sad girl is sad.

Background info: By the way, the adoptive family of Sinead/Neve/Eoin in the Free Folk were from an area called Gaul, which is now modern day France. So whenever Neve slips into her native tongue I imagine it to be old French. The symbol on Sinead's necklace I picture as some sort of crude fleur-de-lis.

* * *

Gawain.

I cannot claim to have loved Sinead as long as Neve has even known her, but in some way I feel a kinship towards the girl. I sit beside her again this morning, as I have the past few. While Arthur sympathizes with the girl, we really must start moving camp, especially with a fortnight of journeying until we reach the Wall.

"Please, eat," I implore her again, holding the rabbit in front of her. She stays in the same spot she has over the last few days, almost a statue in the way she does not move. Each knight has come to talk to her, except Tristan but he never talked much, but it did nothing to help console the girl.

Only after much struggle this morning did she finally allow Dagonet and Galahad to clean the caked mud from her hair and hands. She sits up now, her dark hair hanging in wet tendrils around her face. After more convincing, almost baby talk, she hesitantly takes a piece of rabbit from my hands and gingerly puts it to her mouth.

The routine is the same over the next several days, Neve exists solely in her dark shadow world when her eyes glaze over and she disappears from us. She comes back briefly, though I do not know if she even knows she has been gone, and eats very little, sleeps even less, and talks almost not at all.

Tis not that I expect sympathy from the girl, especially when I have no idea what she is going through. But she seems to ignore the fact that I loved her friend too and no less than she did, however brief the time we had together was. I suppose it is a bit unhealthy, that I am fixating on Neve because she is the closest thing I have left of Sinead.

I muse over in how such a short period of time one person could become so much to me. I was never one to fall in love easily, let alone fall in love at all, but she was the most charmingly beautiful person I had ever set my eyes upon. Her big golden eyes that felt like the sun when they turned upon you. Her hair felt like silk between my finger tips, the white blonde so bright that in the sunshine I had to squint my eyes a little. But mostly it was the way that I first touched her, completely by accident- we had merely brushed hands while skinning an animal for dinner, and it was _electrifying. _It was like lightning up our arms and we locked eyes and I knew that was it. In an instant she knew everything there was and everything there would be.

Days after Sinead left us, Neve came back from her reverie to find me holding Sinead's necklace in my hands. I offered it to her when I realized she had come back. She shook her and declined, "She would have wanted you to have it."

We sat their in silence together looking at the criss crossing symbol, peculiarly like a cross and at the same time like an arrow yet different at the same time.

"Tis a symbol of the land that the family that adopted us came from. They called it Gaul, they taught us their languages, and customs," She trailed off, her eyes glazing over again as she thought of her home and those shared memories they had. I wished she would tell me. So in that way I could hold a little more of Sinead too.

Dagonet settles next to me seeing that today she is rather complacent. The other days he attempted to tend to her wounds she would fight him off, screaming and thrashing the way she did when Sinead jumped into the river. Her eyes do not even quirk to his figure as he nears her. He gently takes one of her hands into his and starts cleaning the wounds there. She does not even bat an eyelash.

I was in the woods when it happened, I could not bear to see her end her own life yet I knew it was not my right to stop her. Apparently Tristan had to hold a screaming Neve down as she weathered through the rage that drove her almost to madness. Her wrists, now bruised and cut up mark where the scout had to pin her to the ground she was so wild in her madness.

Dagonet rubs a green salve over the cuts before wrapping them in a clean bandage, the very bandages that Neve herself cleaned. She even placidly allows him to feed her a brewed tea that I will admit smells disgusting.

"Tis a tea steeped with St. John's wort, tis supposed to battle off the darkness that clouds her mind," He says tipping the liquid back into her mouth.

"She will come back," says a voice from beside us. We both look up to see Tristan standing against a tree observing the three of us.

"How can you be so sure?" I ask him, critical.

"She will come back because of a rage so great, it will be impossible to stop her," He merely responds, he comes forward.

"She has lost everything to one man, she will come back to avenge them by killing him. Her very blood will demand it," He pauses as he stops in front of her, he hooks a finger under her chin and lifts her face to his, "Will you not?"

Her eyes are back, no longer clouded but filled with a shining rage and passion that it colors her entire being. I notice her muscles are quivering, she is barely able to restrain her shaking.

And just like that she comes back to us, a little more every day though she is not the same. There is still a shadow that hangs about her, a semblance of darkness that she sinks into sometimes when she thinks we do not notice. We ride, and we ride hard for days trying to make up lost time. She trains with us, rides with us, determined to push herself to a level that exhausts her physically and mentally.


	11. Galahad II

Disclaimer: I only own Neve, friends please review it feeds my need for acceptance;)

* * *

Galahad.

Tristan was right, she came back. Very slowly, but she came back nonetheless. It took a little effort on all parts of the cavalry. Bors sat with her, telling her about his children. I have the sneaking suspicion that Neve reminded him of his eldest girl, which is why he patiently sat through helping her detangle her hair despite the snickers of the other knights. She passively allowed Dagonet to tend to her wounds, though we could all tell from her gritted jaw that she was not enjoying being taken care of. She and Arthur went on long walks or rode next to each other discussing their Roman ideals and lessons they had learned.

Gawain painstakingly forced her to eat enough every day so she did not keel over on her horse and fall to the ground with hunger pains. Lancelot and I made it a point to tell her every bad, lewd, and corny joke off the top of our heads just to see her fake a smile and pretend to laugh with us. In a way, we helped her as much as she helped us.

We had forgotten, after years of missions and wars and rough living what compassion was. What it meant to take care of somebody else because of your concern for their wellbeing. She brought some humanness back to us that we had lost. And while Bors grumbled around camp after she fell asleep about how girls made us soft, none of us missed the small smile he gave when she curled into a ball in her sleep.

"Again," she says to me now, but more like commands me as we spar again. She had explained to me the first day she approached me about sparring that she needed something to stop her from dwelling upon Sinead. She needed something to distract her.

I lunge at her my sword crossing down narrowly across her front. Long ago had we given up the playfulness of our spars, I was training her for what she would face when we came upon the Saxons. It did not take her by surprise at all that Sinead had approached Arthur about letting her join our ranks, in fact she said she had had a sneaking suspicion all along. Neve vehemently promised Arthur she would not let him down, that she would bring pride to his name. Each knight took it upon himself to help her with her training.

"No breaks, do you think there are breaks in battle?" Tristan calls out harshly as we spar. Of all the knights he is the least easy on her. He pushes her until she is near breaking, then pushes her harder.

"Move, move, move," He is almost screaming, that is if Tristan ever lost his temper, as he circles around us.

Neve has always disliked the scout, but this just pushes her over the edge. She has decided that while she cannot stand the chance to beat him just yet, she would take out her rage on whoever she spars with.

With a scream she throws herself harder at me, her twin blades swinging so fast I have to leap out of the way. She backs me against a tree, one knife coming down hard enough to wedge itself deep into the tree. She does not miss a beat as she uses her sole blade to parry off my sword.

"Good. But there is no need to scream like a cat in heat. You will let your attackers hear you from miles away," Tristan says with a roll of his eyes. I swear even though she does not face him, the moment his eyes roll her frown deepens and she grimaces as if she saw it.

She beats me back with a ferocity and I am dimly reminded of the stories the other knights told of the ancient Amazons, fearsome women warriors who were renown in ancient Greece. She bites her lip to keep from crying out again as she lunges. She is a formidable fighter, moreso than many knights I have known.

"The Free Folk were composed of runaways from every other tribe, most of us were old and crippled. Some deformed. Anybody who was able bodied was expected to defend the tribe, there were no holds barred because of mere sex," She explained to me when I asked her about it later. We approached the Wall rapidly, and you could tell the excitement it brought the men.

Bors was absolutely euphoric with the thought of seeing Vanora again. The other men were exhilarated in the idea of going back to warm beds, easy women, and free ale.

"What do you dwell upon, sweet lady?" Lancelot drawls from where he rides next to Neve. She flashes a quick smile that does not really meet her eyes. Her eyes flash up to the sky above us, colored purple by dawn.

"Have you heard the love story of the sun and moon?" She asks us, her eyes returning to that shadow land with a dim smile. We shake our heads, inclining her to continue.

"The old Wise Women of my tribe told us when we were young that once long before there were people who roamed the earth, the sun and the moon used to live in the sky together at the same time, all the time. They loved each other very much, and their love lit up the entire world. But the sun was vain, and when he heard the fey and spirits praising the pale beauty of the moon he grew so jealous that he fled from the moon. The poor, lovely moon was so confused and chased her lover across the hemisphere endlessly but he refused to stop, so the moon cried endless crystal tears that became the twinkling stars. And so they decided they could only exist where the other one does not, and now we have our night and day. But the moon still pines for her love and that is why she wanes and she waxes through the seasons," She says in a breathless tone.

She had not even noticed all the other knights had pulled their horses to a slow trot beside her to listen.

"You should tell that to my lot o' bastards, they will love that one," Bors says. He is cut off midway through his next sentence by a loud cry that tears through the air. Immediately on guard the knights turn.

"Saxon scouting party," Tristan yells over the din of their cries as they rush towards us.


	12. Dagonet II

Disclaimer: i only own Neve and the direction I take this story in, please review they are appreciated!

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Dagonet.

We are thrust into battle quicker than one can blink. Out of the corner of my eye I make sure to keep tabs on Neve. Though I know she is quite capable of holding her own in a battle it does not ease my mind when I see her throwing herself at one of the Saxons with a cry.

An arrow whizzes past my skull and I narrowly miss it, my sword coming up instinctively to block the sword that was formerly cutting through the air and in the direction of my body. I begin to doubt the might of the Saxon army as I easily parry off his wild blows thinking that even Bors' children would put up a better fight. My personal fight is over before it begins, his blood stains my blade after just a few moments.

I question whether he was incompetent or I have been in this life too long. Probably the answer would be the latter. I watch my fellow knights slay their own enemies and I know that for some, there is no life other than this. Tristan makes it look almost like a dance the way he taunts his opponent. He no longer fights just to kill an opponent who is attacking him, he makes it a game for himself. Willing to let the other man stand a fair chance, and thus be able to put forward his best fight- all for pure entertainment.

From the corner of my eye I see Neve use her cat like moves to wrap her body around the opponent who is almost my size. He lands a solid kick to her chest and she flies through the air like a rag doll, internally I cringe. However she stands with a grin as if this just another spar with Galahad. His look of bewilderment as he hits the ground almost makes me laugh out loud if the situation were not so grave. She quickly plunges her blade into his heart, but then refuses to stop tearing his chest to ribbons. He has stopped moving, his body limp yet she carries on both blades out now as she beats him to a pulp.

I tear her off her opponent and in her bloody haze she does not realize who I am and turns to attack me. Her shoulders where I grip her are slick with blood, her eyes are mad. I toss her over my shoulder and march her thrashing body back to our horses.

"Neve, that is enough," I tell her and her eyes come back into focus on me. She is entirely unsettling, her eyes wild and her face slick with blood and yet she is still ethereally beautiful. I cannot quite tell if I am repulsed or attracted at the moment.

I look around, seeing that the rest of the knights have already taken care of the rest of the party and we move back to our horses.

"You should wash your face," I tell her as we begin to ride again, the Wall is in sight now. She does her best to scrub off with what is left of her canteen water but is left a slightly red tinged face.

"I think she should leave it, she looks like a war goddess," Galahad jokes and for the first time in a while Neve grins- really grins.

"I think the villagers will run screaming, clean yourself up better." Arthur commands as he pulls next to us. He throws the rag he used to wipe his own face at Neve before he trots his horse forward to take the lead. She grumbles as she scrubs her face clean, sticking her tongue out at Arthur's back.

"Tell me gentlemen, what shall be the first thing you do when you return?" Lancelot asks us, as is custom whenever we return from a long journey.

"Get me a couple hundred pints of ale!" Bors roars, tipping an imaginary mug back with a laugh, "And you Dag?"

"Get some real sleep on a real bed," I say with a smile, grabbing my back.

"Well I for one am paying a visit to Lottie, then Isabel, then Gwendolen..." Lancelot trails off.

"Not if I get there first!" Galahad roars pulling his horse ahead of Lancelot's, I notice Neve's disgusted grimace.

"I shall join you on that pint," says Gawain, his smile still dim, "Tristan?"

The Scout merely shrugs, his normal response. At this point we have realized that he does not do it to be rude but merely because that is the way he responds.

"And you Artorius?" Lancelot asks loftily.

"You know as well as I do that the fact that a Saxon scouting party was here means that their army follows," He says in a grim tone, addressing what we have all been thinking since the attack.

"How soon do you think they will be here?" Neve asks him, tossing back the cloth.

"I will have to write to our outposts in the outlying cities and ask about sightings, Tristan I may also have to send you on a few trips. I have no idea, but we must be ready. Neve _you _must be ready," He says casting a look over his shoulder.

She merely nods, looking off again. It is like the entire air around her is vibrating with her shaking rage.

"I think you should increase the frequency of your training, and especially your training with Tristan because of his skill, and either Bors or Dag to know how to handle Saxons of that size...and girth," Arthur continues, throwing a side look at Bors who guffaws. Arthur's jokes are few and far between, but when he does make them they take us all by surprise.

"Home sweet home," Lancelot says with a dreamy sigh, "Come knights who wants to race?"


End file.
